


Hello, Old Friend

by redwinehouse (orphan_account)



Series: Cranial Capacity INDEFINITE HIATUS, BUT A FULL STORY LINE WAS COMPLETED [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 05:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has vanished and you are wasting away. Mycroft has become a beast of burden between keeping you alive and managing another pressing affair. Perhaps this is the end of your relationship with the world's only consulting detective.





	Hello, Old Friend

  


[ ](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)

  


221 Baker Street was a tomb. There were no more loud back and forths between the great Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Dr. John Watson. No longer was there excited energy that crackled through the air when a new case was brought through the door. There was no yelling, cursing, laughing, smashing of human body parts or the bang of bullets. The gentle whispers of two lovers had ceased and the padding of tiny feet no longer echoed in the living room. The violin now gathering dust in the corner had played its last notes. 

It had been like that since Sherlock left four months ago. You had brought Jade’s body back with you from Scotland and you had grieved together, leaning on each other for comfort. But as soon as you returned to London, Sherlock had disappeared. Without Sherlock there, you didn’t have the strength to have a ceremony for Jade. There was little of her left, and you didn’t have any other family beyond the Holmes and John. Your parents had both passed and you were an only child. You, John, and Mycroft were there during her burial. 

You were strong enough to be consolable, but you were very much a broken woman. The only person that could understand what you were going through and who you needed the most had vanished. You felt no ill will towards Sherlock. _You_ were the one who drove him away. _You_ were the one who took James Moriarty into your bed. With Sherlock gone you had an endless amount of time for serious introspection and you realized that what you had with him was very real, but not in the conventional sense. 

James Moriarty was an enigma, something that your scientific brain couldn’t stay away from. His superficial charm and good looks sucked you in. He was always able to say the right thing at the right time and make you laugh. You were fascinated by his fearlessness. He was a recipe for fatal attraction. 

On the flip side, Moriarty found you to be a firework in an otherwise boring, cloudy sky. For a short moment, he was able to feel alive because you made things _interesting._ Psychopaths constantly needed simulation and were natural thrill seekers. But a firework can only be entertaining for so long before it fizzles out. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that he had enjoyed his time with you, but he had grown tired of you and moved on. If he had decided to stay, he would have started to emotionally abuse you. 

You had become a waif, unable or unwilling to eat. You weren’t sure at this point. John kept voicing his concerns and did his best to keep you sustained, making you food and pointing out when you hadn’t eaten in a while. He was still a good friend after everything that happened, but even he had become withdrawn. His chair was mostly empty as he kept to his room, coming out in the morning for breakfast. He would spend a little time with you and periodically check on you throughout the day. He would resurface again at night for dinner and give you a hug or some form of affection, and then he was gone. It was his own way of grieving and you understood. His best friend was gone for almost half a year, his more or less niece was crushed right before his eyes, and you had thrown all of them in the trash for James Moriarty, but John Watson still forgave you. That was the kind of person he was. 

He just needed time. 

To everyone’s shock but your own, the person who was really getting you through this was the Ice Man. Mycroft visited you every day, and if he couldn’t make it, he would call you. Maybe it was because he wasn’t as emotionally invested in the situation as Sherlock and John, but he had taken the affair better than anyone. 

_”Moriarty is the perfect psychopath and wanted to destroy my brother, of course he would have gone after you,” Mycroft had told you coolly. “That being said, what you did was deplorable, but not unforgivable. What my brother is doing is immature and irresponsible.”_

Speaking of the devil, there was a knock at the door. You had been staring out the window at the snow covered streets for an hour, so your eyes hurt when you turned to the dimly lit room. You fumbled with the door lock, weak from skipping breakfast and last night’s dinner. You opened the door. 

”Good morning,” Mycroft said, not a trace of smugness on his face. The oldest Holmes looked tired. 

”Good morning,” you looked down at your sweatshirt and pajama bottoms, feeling like a slob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming. I would have gotten dressed.” 

Mycroft stepped into your apartment without an invitation, “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell you I was coming.” You saw he was holding a covered plate. He must have notice your gaze because he said, “I took the liberty of bringing you breakfast. You seem to be forgetting lately.” He passed it off to you. It was still warm. 

“Thank you. You didn’t need to do that,” you said quietly. 

“I’m quite aware of that.” He sat in John’s chair, leaning his umbrella against the armrest. 

You opened the wrapping and found a full English breakfast sitting on your plate. Your mouth watered. “Do you care if I eat this now?” you asked meekly 

”That is what breakfast is for,” Mycroft responded dryly, although he had the tiniest bit of a smile. You ran to the kitchen and grabbed the necessary utensils. 

”Just…please give me a moment. I would eat with you but I don’t want you to see this,” you said before dive bombing into the baked beans. Mycroft shook his head and laughed softly. 

Ten minutes later, you slid into Sherlock’s…what was once Sherlock’s, chair completely full. “Have you found him?” you asked. It was the question you posed Mycroft every single time you saw him since Sherlock had left. 

Mycroft sighed. “I have not. My brother has always had a talent for avoiding me.” 

”Have you tried-“ 

”Every heroin den in London has been scoured. It’s quite an example of dramatic irony when you hope someone falls back into his old destructive habits.” Mycroft had always been very straight with you, as he was with everybody, but his voice did not have its usual bite. 

You didn’t like to cry in front of Mycroft, but you were too drained to fight it, so you let the silent tear drops fall. You kept yourself as composed as you could and wiped them away silently. 

”So what am I supposed to do?” You held the bridge of your nose, feeling a migraine coming on. 

Mycroft was silent for a few seconds, which gave you pause. Finally, he said gently, “I believe it is time that you let him go.” 

You were quiet, taking a moment to fully process his words. “But you will keep looking for him, right? I mean, you basically have all of the power you possibly could have.” The tears had begun to flow faster. 

Mycroft shook his head. “You and I both know that if Sherlock doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found. And even if I did find him, there is a possibility that he would not want to see you. Do you understand?” The Iceman looked quiet saddened by his own words. 

”I understand,” your voice was shaking. 

Mycroft stood up. “I must be on my way. I have an appointment that I cannot be late to.” He paused before saying, “Whatever the outcome may be, you are still a Holmes, and I will always treat you as such.” 

You lept up and embraced him. Already holding his umbrella in one hand, he gave you a quick one armed hug. 

”Thank you,” you whispered. “Thank you.” 

_~*~_

__

__

Mycroft slid into a sleek black car. With a wave of his finger, the engine started and it made its way into traffic. It was a short ride and Mycroft was out of the car in about twenty minutes. He stepped out and made his way across the pavement and into a rather stately building. The woman behind the front desk knew who he was by now and let him pass by without signing in. 

His umbrella clacked on the wooden floor as he walked down the hallway to the elevators. With an aggravated sigh, he pressed the ‘Up’ button. The ride to the third floor was a typical elevator ride, uneventful. He continued down a wide hallway with multiple doors on both walls. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He had heard a crash and…shouting? He got closer and everything became clear. 

Definitely shouting. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes to the point that they almost went to the back of his head. It was coming from behind a large set of doors at the end of the hall. With an agitated sigh, he pushed open the door. 

”And another thing, you expect me to sit here telling you what part of addiction that I find ‘difficult,’ while this moron over in the corner has clearly been snorting cocaine that he has been smuggling in for the past three days?” Sherlock was standing in the middle of a circle of people who were clearly sitting down for a therapy session. It was easy to deduce that the chair thrown across the room belonged to Sherlock. 

Sherlock strode over to a man with long hair. “He has come into therapy the last several days excited and confidant, something that no patient feels when he or she enters rehab. He never shuts his trap, doesn’t eat, and his pupils are the size of dinner plates.” Sherlock turned to the therapist. “Are they actually _paying_ you?” 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly. 

Sherlock whipped around, only caught off guard for a moment. He straightened his suit jacket. “Mycroft,” he greeted flatly. 

”I believe that will be all for today,” Mycroft said to the therapist, who looked like he needed some therapy of his own. 

Sherlock followed him out into the hallway. “I don’t need you checking up on me,” he snapped. “I’m an adult.” 

Mycroft continued to look ahead as they walked. “Well you certainly don’t act like one, and who said I was here for you?” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m not going to goad you for answers if that’s what you are hoping for.” 

Mycroft shrugged, a look of relaxed indifference on his face. “I’m not interested in what you are and aren’t going to do for me.” 

They stopped in front of a plain white door. Shoving Mycroft aside, Sherlock pushed his way into his room. Unsurprisingly, it was a mess. Those coming down from a crystal meth addiction tended to forget about hygiene. Sherlock flung himself onto his bed and Mycroft sat in the small armchair in the corner. The room was very homely and inviting. As stupid as Sherlock was, he was still his brother and deserved the best rehabilitation in London. 

Sherlock looked significantly better than the last time Mycroft had seen him. The sores all over his body that he had picked were healing nicely and he had gained a little weight back. He had certainly gotten his attitude back, which was unfortunately a good thing. 

”You need to go home,” Mycroft stated. 

Sherlock huffed and lay down. “I don’t have a home.” 

Mycroft crossed his legs. “Perhaps, if you wish to be dramatic. But you have a wife who is only alive because John and I make sure she eats and drinks.” 

At that, Sherlock looked up. “What?” 

Mycroft raised both of his eyebrows smugly, glad to finally catch his brother’s attention. “Yes. She’s lost at the very least fifteen pounds. She hardly sleeps and she looks like death,” Mycroft eyed Sherlock up and down, “and she didn’t go on a heavy narcotic bender.” He was satisfied to see the concern in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock waved him away. “She’ll get over it. It’s no longer my concern.” 

Mycroft sighed. “Your relationship is not my business. However, you do have to go over there and straighten things out. Today is your release day.” Mycroft got up and opened the door. 

”And if I don’t?” Sherlock asked definitely. 

”Then who is really the Ice Man?” Mycroft left without another word, leaving Sherlock with his thoughts and the click of his umbrella as he disappeared down the hall. 

~*~ 

You sat on the ground, Ophelia in your lap. Your fingertips lightly traced the sutures of her skull. You remembered years ago, when your relationship with Sherlock was still just blooming, when Sherlock was going through hell to take her from you. You remembered when he stole her from you and held her above your head so you couldn’t reach her because he was so tall. You giggled. Hadn’t he put a foot under John’s bed? Before you knew it the top of Ophelia’s head was damp. 

”Oh, I’m sorry for getting you roped into my silly problems.” You wiped your tears off with your sleeve. “Do you remember that detective that really wanted you all those years ago? That tall, shockingly pale, and handsome one?” You flipped her around so that she was facing you. “I am madly in love with him, but I went and broke his heart. It’s not just a regular heart, either. It’s incredibly fragile even though it likes to look tough. Over the years people have said he hasn’t had one but,” you swallowed, “it was protecting itself. I was extremely lucky and had the honor of touching it. Then I went and broke it and I am the worst person on this earth.” Ophelia stared back at you with her empty eye sockets. “I envy you. All you have to do is sit on a mantle.” 

”You know I’m supposed to be the one talking to skulls.” 

Your head shot up. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, misty eyed. 

”How much of that did you hear?” When he didn’t reply you buried your face in your hands. “All of it. Great.” You heard rapid footsteps and felt a hand wrap around your wrist. Sherlock gently brought you to your feet and you gasped. “Oh, Sherlock…” you gently touched his face, “Mycroft lied to me. You _were_ in a heroin den.” 

“Crystal meth.” he swallowed. “The heroin didn’t make me numb enough.” he wiped his eyes. "Mycroft found me in four days and flung me into rehab." 

You held onto his coat lapels. You didn’t know if he could stand the touch of you, so that was the only thing you could grab. You had to touch him somehow. 

”That’s not how you take away pain. That’s not how you grieve, you idiot.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh, _I’m_ the idiot when you’re the one who is starving herself.” 

”You’re both idiots!” John yelled from his bedroom. 

Your lip trembled as you tried to hold back the giggle. You didn’t think it was quite appropriate to laugh at such a serious situation, but you weren’t strong enough and laughed anyway. To your absolute joy, Sherlock laughed as well. 

”Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked. 

”Did I mean what?” 

”What you told the skull.” 

”Every word.” You had a few moments to look at those beautiful blue eyes before Sherlock wrenched you to him. Wrapping his arms around you, he buried his face in your hair. 

"Hello," he murmured. 

Nestled against his chest, you kept repeating, “I’m so sorry.” 

”I know, and I forgive you. Shut up.” he cupped your face. “You’re lucky you are a lunatic who talks to the dead because I was coming here with a much different frame of mind.” He pulled you in for a soft kiss. When you started to cry, he pulled back in alarm. “What did I do?” 

”Nothing,” you smiled. “This is the first time I''ve been happy in months." 

”Thank Christ,” you both heard from upstairs. 

It was going to take a long time to fully heal and both of you were still hurting. You weren’t okay, but with the person you loved by your side, you knew you would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> And we are DONE. Back to the old format. 
> 
> The ending was also going to be a little more angst-y. Sherlock would still forgive her, but not as kindly. I was listening to Eric Clapton the entire time I was writing this and 'Hello, Old Friend' came on and anyone who knows that song will understand why I changed the ending and why I named the chapter after it
> 
> [Please check out my Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them fic. I think the plot explores something very original in this fandom. <3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11833146/chapters/26707980)
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://www.dazzlejunction.com/generators/image-generator.php)  
>   
> 


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